


Lie Awake With Me

by amarillogrande



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Angst and Porn, Bottom Castiel, Drug Use, Drugs, Endverse, Episode: s05e04 The End, Human Castiel, M/M, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:56:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarillogrande/pseuds/amarillogrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a lot of thing Dean shouldn’t be doing.</p><p>He shouldn’t be standing half-naked just inside the door to Cas’s bedroom. He shouldn’t have taken that fourth shot. Shouldn’t have stumbled over here in a brief lapse of judgment, shouldn’t have stripped himself of his shirt and jacket to face the brief walk in the biting air of November.</p><p>He shouldn’t have had to watch Lucifer walk away, wearing his brother. He shouldn’t have had to set up this camp for wayward strangers and fuckups, he shouldn’t have sunk down into this hatred of life and all the self-loathing that came with it. He shouldn’t have killed that kid today.</p><p>And he shouldn’t have yelled at Cas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lie Awake With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: [x](http://chevrolangels.tumblr.com/post/85375029183/i-wrote-a-thing-yall-i-would-love-if-you-would)  
> 

Dean stumbles a little as he pushes aside the beaded curtain. The rough scrape of wood against his bare shoulder almost stops him, almost reminds him that he shouldn’t be here.

He reaches a hand out to steady himself, to wait until the floor beneath him stops moving.

There’s a lot of things that he shouldn’t be doing.

He shouldn’t be standing half-naked just inside the door to Cas’s bedroom. He shouldn’t have taken that fourth shot. Shouldn’t have stumbled over here in a brief lapse of judgment, shouldn’t have stripped himself of his shirt and jacket to face the brief walk in the biting air of November.

He shouldn’t have had to watch Lucifer walk away, wearing his brother. He shouldn’t have had to set up this camp for wayward strangers and fuckups, he shouldn’t have sunk down into this hatred of life and all the self-loathing that came with it. He shouldn’t have killed that kid today.

And he shouldn’t have yelled at Cas.

He shouldn’t have called him a junkie, he shouldn’t have looked into his dead eyes and laughed.

He shouldn’t have done a lot of things.

 

But now Cas looks at him from his curled up position on the floor, a hazy smile dragging across his features as Dean stops inside his doorway, downtrodden and dejected.

“Dean,” he drawls lazily, slipping forward. He doesn’t bother saying hello anymore.

But Dean avoids him, and instead turns to sit heavily on the edge of his bed, holding his head in his hands. Cas pauses a little, rocking back on his heels as he adjusts to the heavy weight of standing.

 

The cold air swirls around them. Dean can see his breath.

 

Cas slinks over until he’s by his side, looking down at him. He doesn’t touch him.

Dean rubs his hands over the top of his thighs, still refusing to look up.

“Another kid today, Cas,” he whispers. Cas wavers back and forth, humming.

“Another fuckin’ teenager, and I just mowed him down—“

His voice dies, and he coughs back harsh tears. Or blood. Dean doesn’t know anymore.

Castiel sinks to his knees beside him, but he still won’t touch him. He knows that Dean needs to get it out, but he refuses to coddle him. He’ll listen, sure, but he won’t patronize.

“What was I supposed to do, Cas?” Dean stares unseeing at the wall. “What was I supposed to do?”

 

A soft shift of movement, and Dean looks down. He blinks blearily as his vision adjusts to the sight in front of him. Cas’s rough hand, littered with brightly colored specks.

Dean looks at him. Cas shrugs.

“They help,” he says simply.

Dean wants to shove him away. He wants to smack his arm and watch the pills go flying across the room—wants to scream and yell at Cas—to see if that would shock him enough to get him to stop.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

“All of them?” Dean asks softly, meeting his eyes for the first time.

Cas stares unblinkingly. Then he nods.

Dean reaches out, fingers curling under Castiel’s wrist, cupping the offered hand. Cas’s breath hitches a little as Dean leans down and licks his skin clean, scooping up the red and blue bubbles with his tongue, finishing them off with a soft press of lips to the center of his palm. Cas closes his eyes at that and sighs, his shoulders sinking. His wet fingers drift softly across Dean’s chin before his hand drops away. It feels like a kiss.

Dean fumbles behind him, finding a half-empty beer bottle, and he drinks the stale dregs, washing away the taste of harsh chemicals on his tongue. The flat liquid bites at his cheeks and stings his nostrils.

“Cas,” he murmurs.

Cas doesn’t answer him. He just leans his cheek against his leg, purring contentedly.

“They help,” Cas repeats, after a moment, or an eternity.

Dean closes his eyes as the colors shift in front of him, as the world slides and dances behind his eyes.

 

“Help,” Dean whispers.

 

Soft shuffles, tiny sounds as Cas moves against him, and Dean opens his eyes to see Cas has crawled in between his legs, his eyes holding his own. Hands wrap around both of his ankles, light touches feeling the top of his boots, his laces. Cas makes quick work of untying them, hot trails skating over his skin where his eyes burn him up.

He never seems to blink, Dean thinks. Was he crying, or was that just the blue?

Left, right, both boots tugged off, and Cas slides his hands over the top of Dean's feet, up his shins and underneath his pant leg, feeling at the tops of his socks and up to his shivering legs, feeling the goosebumps there.

 

“You’re cold.”

Cas runs his hands back down, finding his feet again.

“It’s cold outside,” Dean answers softly.

 

Cas nods, kneading softly at the arch of his foot, and Dean groans, his head sinking back. His whole body hurts, and his muscles ache, but Cas always seemed to know, always knew where Dean needed a touch to distract him, to pull him under.

Cas takes his time, touching him gently, so gently—moving slowly up his ankles, calves, and back. Dean nearly slips, nearly lets the darkness take him. But Cas is bright in front of him, so bright and so muted, his hands now on the tops of his thighs and running up to his waist as he pulls him closer to the edge of the bed.

Dean comes willingly, lets Cas wrap around him and bury his head into his stomach, kissing gently at his skin. Dean doesn’t have the energy to touch him back. He just sits there as Cas kneels in between his knees, holding him.

He looks down, and Cas’s eyes are relentless, piercing him again.

 

“Don’t look at me like that.”

 

Cas stands quietly, shifting until their faces are level.

“Like what?”

He’s whispering, voice curling out against him. Dean imagines he can see it, swirling in weed smoke and the breath of alcohol, dark twisting streams escaping his throat and sinking into his own mouth.

“Like this matters,” he answers shakily.

He wants Cas to snap at that, wants to see those ocean eyes flinch. But they don’t. Perhaps he was too deep under to let it hurt him anymore.

 

“But it doesn’t.”

Cas rocks up against him, hands skimming over his bare chest.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs.

He pushes him back on the bed and climbs into Dean’s lap, looping his arms lazily around his neck. Cas drifts one hand up to his hair, idly twisting and tugging at it. Dean closes his eyes again, lost in the feeling. Cas moves slowly on top of him, never kissing him.

 

They had never kissed.

 

Cas might crawl all over him, he might curl around him like a cat, humming and touching, but they never kissed. Never.

Dean reaches up a hesitant hand, wrapping it around Cas’s shoulder, his fingers pressing into skin, biting into the muscle there. He holds on, for balance, for sanity, for warmth. Cas tucks their bodies closer, presses his face against Dean’s neck and inhales, rolling softly against him. Dean imagines he’s breathing in his soul, that he can still sense it—even after all this shit—that Cas can still see his light, see how much Dean needs him. 

How many months of this? How many desperate nights? Of Dean slinking into Cas's room after it got dark, of them touching and feeling, teasing just short of the line, the belief that this was just something people did to comfort each other.

That it was nothing else. That it was just touch. Just something.

 

But Cas had to go fuck it all up.

 

His heady smell is all over him, pressing into Dean’s bones and ripping through his spine, Cas’s hands working themselves over the skin of his naked back, pulling, pressing, hard. Marking him in ways no one would ever see. Dean never could find them the next day, but they were _there_ , so undeniably there, the ghostly scrapes of Cas’s body against his. Sometimes Dean felt like they were the only two who could see them, worship them properly, the only ones who understood what they meant.

 

Cas’s lips drift down to find his cheek—

( _not allowed, no, no, that was against the rules)_

—whispering the six words that would break it all.

 

“I want you to fuck me.”

 

They don’t move, but Dean feels himself shatter, his entire will draining away and bleeding into the ground.

“No, Cas.”

His hands don’t listen though, and they find themselves curving down to Cas's hips, fingers sinking into flesh. 

“I can’t.”

Cas shifts forward again, lips moving to his forehead.

( _Another kiss, also not allowed_ )

“You can.”

Cas traces kisses down his face, his nose, over closed eyelids.

“You can do anything to me.”

He grips him so tight that Dean’s eyes shock open, and Cas is unrelenting, right in his face. He’s right there, he’s always been there, and how could Dean ever not notice this, not notice him—

 

“I fucked myself already for you,” Cas breathes.

 

Dean sinks, light popping around him—but Cas supports him, holding his head messily as they fall, as they breathe each other in.

“Three, in and out, wanting you so bad,” he hisses. “And I knew, I knew you’d come tonight, you always do, and I wanted to be ready—“

Dean falls against him sloppily, and they tumble to the sheets, Cas wrapping around him like suffocating smoke.

He rolls underneath him, pushing their hips together. 

 

They’re falling, falling so far—the bed beneath them has melted, and Dean can only see the dragging waters of Cas’s eyes pulling him under. Those eyes that had bewildered him so many times, stared at him for years—

Dean hunches over him, and Castiel’s fingers find his mouth. He opens for him, he can’t help it, Cas’s index dipping inside his bottom lip as he shifts underneath him again, sighing.

“Just like that,” he soothes, pulling him closer.

Dean’s breath is coming in ragged starts and stops now, he’s not really sure he’s alive anymore—there’s just a storm and he and Cas are at the center of it, dying together.

Those fingers—oh no, not allowed, not allowed—

 

Oh, those fingers.

There was one time—that one time, _fuck_ —

That time he had slipped into one of Cas’s planned nights of sex, those nights the camp pretended to ignore, and Dean had stood at the door, watching him with hooded eyes. He had slipped in amongst the women and sat opposite him, a silent agreement.

Dean never touched him, never went near him, but they didn’t take their eyes off each other the whole night, not even when the women came to claim him again, when Cas was dragged down and slid two easy fingers in and out of the girl laying on the floor in front of him, ignoring her thrashes and groans, only watching Dean.

They had stared at each other as the women found their way in and around them, just _stared_ —pretending it didn’t mean anything. They passed them back and forth like beer bottles, taking a drink and tasting each other on the girls’ lips.

Because like that, it didn’t count.

 

They loved each other in a kind of game, all of it a hot challenge, daring without words.

_Who’s the one? Who’s going to break first?_

But Dean hadn’t expected Cas to be weak. He didn’t want him to give in, to break—

He didn’t want to break Cas.

Because Dean wasn’t something worth breaking yourself over for. He had thought Cas would never slip up, would never give in, because Dean wasn’t much of a prize.

He was never much of anything.

But this— _oh._

 

He arches back, lost in sensation.

 

This counts. This _counts_ , no, this isn’t allowed—

 

                    Cas.

 

Cas.

 

                                               Cas.

 

Cas’s lips are like Heaven, Dean thinks.

A little bit soft and a little bit sharp, pained and comforting all at once, because you have to go through the bite of death to find peace. And Dean wasn’t sure he was finding peace in Cas’s mouth, but fuck—

It was something pretty damn close.

 

Cas shifts underneath him, pulling him in and sinking into his tongue, sliding against him perfectly and imperfectly, obscene and profound, that kiss meaning more than anything he’s ever experienced.

“Dean,” he murmurs, the name floating out hot and green in the cold air of their cabin—because yes, it was _theirs_ now, wasn’t it—and his name washes over him, Cas saying it reverent and beautiful, holy and pure.

Dean tries to return the favor, tries to make Cas understand in just the way he whispers his name back, but he’s not sure he succeeds. Dean was never good with words, and the chemicals coursing through his blood, the alcohol, the intoxicating feeling of Cas under his hands—he can’t begin to hope he’s making sense.

So he buries himself in Cas, twists their bodies together, wanting to die and drag down Cas with him.

 

Skin is beautiful, and Cas’s is perhaps the prettiest he’s ever seen—a soft expanse that had grown paler with each passing month, because Cas never sat out in the sun anymore, even though he used to—used to love it—

But with every pill, every drip of tequila and vodka into those perfect lips—

 

The light began to hurt too much.

 

And now his skin is pale and sweet, tasting like sandpaper and ice, as Dean runs his tongue over the scars and freckles from leftover memories of sun, pressing his own marks, his own claims on Cas’s body.

Skin underneath his arms, soft and giving—and skin of the stomach, hard and unyielding—rippling over muscle, twisting to give him better access.

Hair, soft and light underneath his hands—hair, dark and coarse, trailing down his stomach and to his groin, scratching roughly as they lie naked together—move naked together—for the first time.

 

Eyes, hot and solid, fingers soft and bruising.

 

Lips, tongue, teeth.

 

It’s all too much and never enough, and Dean is sinking. He’s hard and hurting and just wants to die, wants to kill and rip his heart out, wants to see it beat its last breath in his mouth— He wants Cas to rip him apart, so he can die in his hands—so he can die with love on his tongue.

 

Cas shoves him back and climbs on top of him, arms shaking a little as he props himself up, but Dean isn’t ready. This isn’t something he’s sure he wants, because this would change everything, this would destroy everything—

But Cas sinks down on top of him, fingernails scraping against his skin as he settles, slipping effortlessly around him and sighing deep, closing his eyes. Dean fights to keep his eyes open, everything is fighting against him, but he wants to see, wants to see Cas—wants Cas—fuck, god—

 

_I just want Cas_

 

And Castiel rocks forward, letting out a soft sound, a soft sound with four letters.

He shakes, rolling forward, and Dean nearly bolts off the bed, gasping down air.

“I, _god_ , Cas—“

His hands grip his hips, digging into his skin.

“ _Cas—_ “

 

His eyes stay just long enough to register the bright blooming of reddish blue marks under his fingers—but still he holds him, grips him tighter and tighter—

And Dean wants to apologize. He wants to scream and hit and bite at the man on top of him—wants to throw him across the room and beat him senseless—He wants him to devour him and never let him go.

 

Cas sinks lower and lower with every passing second, their faces getting closer, until his hands are boxing Dean in—caging him and bringing their lips within inches of each other.

 

_No. No kissing. Not allowed, not allowed—_

 

Dean surges up and drags him down, thrusting hard up into him as he finds those lips, pulling his own perfection and Heaven from Cas’s mouth.

Cas doesn’t hesitate, he pours it all back into him, every last bit of himself, shoved forward and down, nothing held back, no hesitations.

Cas’s fingers dig into his skin, he stutters, he cries, he cries out his name—

And Dean thinks he sees it, _wings_ , beautiful and bright—the dark black of them, flaring above his head—

Or maybe it was just the cool brightness of morning air? Blue and pale—

 

Cas jerks forward, his eyes glowing white.

 

“Dean—“ He gasps, hands fumbling desperately. He finds his cheeks, pulling Dean’s face up to meet his.

Dean grabs the back of his neck, bringing his lips up to meet Cas’s, breathing his own life and death from that beautiful mouth, arching back as Cas moves with him, heaving, rocking, gently, harshly, perfectly.

Dean can’t tell him. And he can’t let Cas know. He can’t know.

All he can see is Cas, Cas smothering him, Cas enveloping him, his body, his heart, his soul, all around him.

Cas. Oh god, Cas.

 

Cas.

 

He sucks in a harsh breath, drawing it from Dean’s lungs, his whole body stilling and heaving. And when he comes, that small vestige of grace inside him still shows its power. It shows how beautiful, how imperfect, how sad he is—

He bucks and rocks forward, gasping down harsh breaths as Dean moves inside him, coaxing every last breath, every last word and groan out. Dean tightens his grip, pulling him in close, and Cas gasps against him, ducking his head down. He stills, and those hands stop, his whole body seizing as it rushes through him, mouth opening in a silent cry.

 

The room flashes with a bright blue light, everything illuminated briefly—

 

Then Cas sinks, collapsing on top of him, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe.

 

The room dims, and Dean whimpers, unable to speak, just holding him close.

Cas is shaking on top of him, still and silent.

 

“Cas,” he murmurs.

 

“Cas.”

 

He can’t say anything else.

 

_Dean_

Comes the whispered reply.

 

_Dean_

_Dean_

_Dean_

 

 

There are no words. Just names.

 

* * *

 

**2010**

They were in the car when they got the call.

They were on some highway, some backwoods road when his phone buzzed, when Dean pressed sadness to his ear, accepted the words without emotion.

But he pulled over, stopped, and Castiel could only watch as he stood by the side of the road, breathing—pulling down air like it was the only thing to do, the lights from the car burning through him, illuminating every hair, every breath, every tear.

Silent tears that fell, and maybe even hissed as they sank into the ground, burning hot and salty.

Castiel had cried enough in his time, but he still felt the dampness on his cheeks, and that was the first time he knew.

The first time he knew that he wanted to touch him, to make him forget, to kiss his eyes shut with comfort and hope. To tell him everything was going to be fine.

They pulled into a cheap motel not long after, (separate beds still). And Dean unlaced his boots, the ones Castiel recognized as Sam’s, and Castiel sank back into the pillows, feeling strength leave him. He noticed a cut on his arm and willed it closed, but felt only a slight fizzling beneath his skin.

It had already started.

He tried to look at him, see a deep green fix him with that stare, but he saw nothing. Only black, only darkness, only hate.

He was already gone. Castiel could not follow.

 

* * *

 

 

**2011**

They were in the car when the wind blew.

He was so quiet, he was always quiet those days, and Castiel knew saying anything wouldn’t help.

The knife he now wore to fight off demons outside and inside of himself stuck into the seat as he slid into the passenger's side, but Dean didn’t react.

He didn’t even look at him. He didn’t have the energy anymore.

 

He just turned the key in the ignition, and they drove again.

 

* * *

 

**2012**

They weren’t in the car when they found a home.

A solid place, a camp, a cabin. Worried faces huddled around a chilling fire.

The floorboards were soft, damp, and needed replacing. Castiel worked on them with sweat on his back and dust beneath his feet.

The whiskey helped, helped make short work of it.

 

He liked it when it burned. He liked it when it made him want to die.

 

Castiel made friends, he made alliances. They exchanged silent looks and warm touches, and it helped fill the emptiness.

He rolled tobacco in paper, watched it burn and the wind fly away again. The air turned cold and all signs of life left.

Castiel sat on the porch of his cabin (because, yes, it was still just _his_ ) and he felt himself unable to cry.

 

* * *

 

**2013**

They were in the car when he taught him how to drive.

Soft hands, the only time they were soft, guiding him, resting on the wheel, gripping at nothing.

 

And when Castiel pressed too hard, too fast, he didn’t seem to care. Like it didn’t matter if they ended up turned over in a ditch, if the metal screeched and tore. If their skin burned and ripped.

And it was winter when he first touched him, endless nights filled with heat and fire (no more separate beds).

There was never a sober moment, there was never a second without music. The radio buzzed and hissed as they curled into each other on the floor.

They had no words as they lay on the cold wood. His ankles hooked over his shoulders and they looked at themselves, the dirty reflection, the only truth they had known for a while. And even as he screamed at him, moaned his name, told him he hated him, Castiel wanted to love him, wanted to rip his bones from his flesh and watch him die.

 

And when Castiel pressed too hard, too fast, he didn’t seem to care.

 

* * *

 

 

**2014**

They weren’t in their car then, they were never in the car anymore.

He’s gone, but he’s all he can see. Castiel feels a sharpness on his tongue and bites back, reveling in the salt of blood and sweat.

The clock ticks. The days drag. His fingers drag too, along his sides, when they’re not locked around the barrel of a gun, when they’re not stuck in his pockets, shouldering blame and shutting out the world.

 

* * *

 

_Cas_

He murmurs, soft and gentle.

 

_Cas, please, please_

 

It’s all he seems to say anymore, desperate and wanting.

 

_I—_

Talk, talk to me, please, please, Dean—

 

_I hate you, I fucking hate you so much, you bastard_

Don’t, don’t say that, not you, not you, no—

 

_And I—I lo—I love you, I love you, so much, so damn much, I can’t help it_

Dean.

 

Dean.

_Don’t leave me, please, I don’t think I can—_

 

No. Never—

_Cas, please, please, I love you so much, don’t—_

 

No.

_I won’t—_

 

Never.

_Love you_

 

Dean.

_Didn’t want to, tried so hard not to—_

 

I’m here. 

_Please._

 

* * *

 

 

Dean sits up, the cold air swirling around him.

It hits him hard, after the warmth of their bed, and he shivers, clutching at the cord around his neck.

 

_That poisonous smile_

_A white suit and a blood red rose_

 

He hunches over, pressing his hands to his eyes.

He can’t help it. He cries, his shoulders shaking with the effort to hold it back.

 

There’s a soft touch on his back, a gentle touch, a caress.

 

Dean straightens, not wanting him to see.

But of course he sees. He always has.

“I know,” he murmurs. Dean shudders, digging his nails into his thighs.

“I know,” Cas says again, sitting up. He wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and pulls him in, breathing softly against his skin.

His fingers drift down over his naked back, brushing gently against the bandage he had taped there earlier, as if he could heal him like he used to.

But Cas is healing him. He's healing him every second they're together.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Dean inhales brokenly.

“Cas,” he pleads. “Cas, I—“

He can’t finish, and Cas doesn’t let him. He doesn’t let him pretend he’s okay.

 

He swallows his words and drags him back into himself, whispering softly.

 

_I got you_

And

_Trust me_

_Please_

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers. “I’m so damn sorry—“

Cas shushes him, pulling him back under the covers, wrapping him up tight in his arms.

 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, dragging those fingers through his hair.

“It’s okay.”

 

_I love you_

 

It’s unspoken, he’s pretty sure Cas has never said it, even though Dean has said it too much—whispered desperately against his skin, into the crook of his neck, as Cas moved inside him, or just sitting in silence, into his perfect lips.

 

_I love you_

_I love you_

“Please,” he begs.

 

"Please."

 

* * *

 

Dean stumbles a little as he pushes aside the beaded curtain. The rough scrape of the wood against his bare shoulder is too familiar now, routine.

He reaches a hand out to steady himself, fixing his eyes on Cas’s.

He inhales deeply. There’s a lot of things that he shouldn’t be doing.

 

He shouldn’t be standing half-naked just inside the door to Cas’s bedroom. Instead he should be in Cas’s arms, should be looking into his eyes. Instead he should be gentle, should shout it out to the world, tell everyone about them, proclaim his love to the heavens.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

Instead he slips in beside him, swallowing his hurt as Cas curls around him, whispering words of comfort.

And the pain lessens. It really does.

 

And he thinks, as Cas reaches out, takes his hand in his own…maybe there is something here.

Maybe this isn’t all there is.

 

Maybe this isn’t the end.


End file.
